mechanical failure verse:11




Beyond superstition lies absolute silence,
I’ve been there and back, so I know,
the world is divided by lies of omission,
you’d leave, but there’s nowhere to go.


Inside us are elements fusing together,
it’s helium, learning to dance,
your brain misinterprets the heat from the fire
as love’s subatomic romance.


Obsession depends on the art of remembrance,
you can’t close the door on the dead,
their voices continue to ask for forgiveness,
leaving their bones in your bed.


The moment you stop looking over your shoulder,
you’ll feel something break in your heart,
the fragments of glass will cut through to the surface,
you’ll bleed, as the world falls apart.


Your tongue is entangled in too many vowels,
you’re stumbling naked through time,
the stairway to heaven is under construction,
you’re gasping for breath as you climb.


You said there was gold at the end of the rainbow,
you’re counting on luck to provide,
the gap between having enough to be happy or not,
is too small to divide.


You’d eat, if the tree bore the fruit of temptation,
you’d drink, if the clouds would descend,
you’d make a machine that would burn with desire,
but we’re all missing parts, in the end.


Invisible objects control our emotions
in ways that are hard to explain,
they linger like ghosts at the edge of perception,
their love’s an indelible stain.


We cover the mirrors to hide our expressions,
our faces as blank as a wall,
we would experience hours of pleasure,
if we could see beauty at all.


We made something new from the ashes of reason,
the smoke makes us cough ‘til we’re blue,
we dream about living in circular houses,
we’re mad that they never come true.


Demonic possession turns toys into monsters,
they smile, and burst into flame,
they’re monomaniacal angels of vengeance
with long unpronounceable names.


I swept up the ashes, and focused on dinner,
I looked for the corkscrew in vain,
the half-eaten cake, and the chalice of blood on the counter,
are hard to explain.


The cake was a symptom of too many birthdays,
the candles took days to blow out,
I have to admit that the animal sacrifice
gave me a moment of doubt.


The chalice was made from the skull of a raven,
the blood was a gift from the gods,
you serve it with sugar, and two fluid ounces of water,
and cardamom pods.


The clock won’t stop talking about it’s religion,
it sings to the moon every night,
the moon howls back with it’s own wild chorus,
screaming with pagan delight.


Mechanical failure is part of the problem,
dust takes it’s toll on the gears,
achieving the delicate balance of movement and stillness,
takes thousands of years.


Salvador Dali said art was a virgin,
a cold disassembled machine,
whether or not we’ll decipher the language of eros,
remains to be seen.


This image came from a photograph of a broken doll I found on the internet.  I normally like to work from my own photographs, but that's not always possible, and this one was so perfect I had to use it.  This was painted for an art auction at the Lindsay Gallery, but I couldn't bear to be without it, so I bought it back.  I have a hard time selling my work.  I'm o.k. giving them to my friends, because I know I'll see them again.



mt forest
November 19 2014
#291